


a man of many talents

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Facial Shaving, First Time Blow Jobs, Grumpy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23272732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Jaskier has a razor in his hand. He's not entirely sure what possessed Geralt to put it there, but he's not going to disappoint.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 184
Collections: All The Nice Things Flash Exchange 2020





	a man of many talents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Jaskier's not entirely sure what in the whole wide world would possess Geralt to trust him with a razor in his hand, let alone a razor at his throat. But here he is, and here they are, and life takes funny turns like that. 

He supposes the reason is this: Geralt's hurt both his hands ridding the world of... _something_ \- honestly, Jaskier's also not entirely sure what the thing was, because Geralt told him _close your eyes and don't open them again until I say so_ and, for once, it seemed like a very good idea to listen. It was dark and they were in the middle of a very creepy forest and while Jaskier wouldn't call himself a coward, he does have a healthy sense of self-preservation. And besides which: Geralt is a witcher. He should know by now how to handle himself (because if can't, everyone else is entirely fucked). 

Of course, right at this precise moment in time, exactly what Geralt can't do is handle himself. His hands are both bandaged and whatever it is that he made Jaskier dab on underneath them smells like his mouth tastes after a night of at least 40% too much cheap wine. So: here he is, and here they are, and there's a razor in Jaskier's hand. 

"If you cut me, Jaskier, I swear..." Geralt says, gruffly, and he probably hopes it sounds appropriately ominous and/or threatening. However, Jaskier finds it leaves a lot to be desired in that regard, seeing as how he can't even touch his sword without wincing, let alone lift it. 

Jaskier raises his eyebrows at him pointedly as he runs the razor's blade against the leather strop. "And what are you going to do if I do, Mr. Smelly Hands?" he asks, and Geralt huffs at him like that's an appropriately threatening response. It's not. Not that he's about to cut him on purpose, though he thinks sometimes he might deserve a little nick. 

From behind, he rubs the lathery cream into Geralt's rather prickly face, and as he does so he has to ask himself: is it really so important that he shaves today? A four-day growth of stubble on his chin looks quite manly, Jaskier thinks, even if his long hair keeps catching against it and making him grimace. A beard might actually suit him, too. Jaskier tried growing one once and he thought he looked like quite the big to-do, but at his next gig they'd paid him to shave it before they went on. He's not sure that really says much of anything pleasant, except women in Cintra are big fans of his boyish charm. 

He wipes his hands, and he's honestly quite impressed that he refrained from wiping them on Geralt's shirt, given the shameful way he's been (mis)treating him. Last night, after the whatsit in the woods was finally dead, when they'd got back to the inn, Geralt made him strip all of his icky clothes off and take them to the innkeeper for washing (though Jaskier suggested a ritual burning might have been more sanitary). He made him wash him off with a cloth once the tub was ready and then comb the gunk out of his hair. He made him dry him and dress him and daub his hands with disgusting yellow ointment that smelled like distilled cabbage water stirred with a decomposing otter. 

He wipes his hands and he picks up the razor. He tilts back Geralt's head and slowly, two fingers at the point of his extremely stoic, chiselled chin, he starts to shave. 

For a while, Geralt's quiet. And okay, so that's not unusual for him, but while Geralt's quiet, _he's_ quiet, and he listens to the slow, even rhythm of Geralt's breath under the _wisk-wish-wish_ of the blade against his beard. He's shaved men before, of course - the bard business hasn't always paid all that well so he's had to turn his hand to what's available - but his fingers brush at Geralt's skin and then he feels him swallow. And there's a moment then when Jaskier knows that now, right now, at this precise moment, his throat stretched out and a sharp blade at it, Geralt is as vulnerable as he'll ever be, maybe more so than he was out in the woods last night. He's made himself that way because he trusts that Jaskier won't take advantage. Somehow, though he's not sure how it's possible, that thought actually makes his hand feel steadier. 

He expects Geralt to ask what's taking so long, but he doesn't, and so he takes his time. And then, when he's finished, he wipes off what little there's left of the cream and then pats him on the well-shaved cheek. 

"Smooth as a baby's arse, I think you'll find," he says. "Or mine, for that matter. I've a wonderfully smooth arse, if I do say so myself. People often comment on it." 

Geralt frowns. Jaskier drums slightly soapy fingers against his own lips, which is at least forty times better than the ointment. And when Geralt shifts his legs a little wider, Jaskier finds his gaze drawn down; his mouth forms a surprised little O and he wags one finger down between Geralt's thighs. He's hard inside his trousers, which he now thinks would have been obvious for quite some time if he'd just looked.

"Oh!" he says, and practically hops from foot to foot. He grins. "Oh, I _see_!" He claps his hands to his face, which actually feels faintly prickly, too, now he comes to think of it. 

"Well that explains a lot," he says, and Geralt presses his lips together flatly. Trust a witcher to be taciturn about that, too. "Did you want a hand?" He waves said hand. He wiggles his fingers in the air, then he does an excellent job of miming tossing him off. He likes to think it shows finesse.

Geralt doesn't reply, but Jaskier knows that's a reply in itself. He settles on his knees between Geralt's thighs. His fingers pluck at his laces like the strings of a lute. And when he takes him in his mouth, Geralt moans, low and frankly quite obscene. He tried moaning like that in a song once, for effect, and got himself banned from an entire county. 

Maybe later he'll put some more of that awful ointment on Geralt's injured hands or spoonfeed him porridge till he scowls at him, or maybe even both. Maybe he'll strip him and wash him and slip one hand under the water and...yes, so ejaculation under water is never something he'd call pretty, but it's worth having a try. Maybe Geralt will let him brush his hair because he can't do it himself and he'll braid it because frankly, Geralt can't do much to stop him, then he'll take him to bed. There are other things he's good at, too, and it seems like it's the right time to show him all his talents. 

When he's done, he presses a quick kiss to Geralt's mouth then spits out of the window. Geralt raises his eyebrows at him. Jaskier shrugs, then straddles his thighs and makes himself at home. If Geralt wants him to swallow, he thinks, he's going to have to use his words. 

It's really quite sweet that Geralt wants his help, he thinks. It's really quite sweet that Geralt trusts him, and he can think of a few ways for him to repay him. 

He brushes one hand against his chin and feels the rasp of stubble, and he feels something stir down deep inside. It's not quite a song but he supposes it's not not. 

In a few days' time, once Geralt's weird witcher body heals him faster than any other mortal man and his hands are good as new again, he thinks he'll hand the razor to him. Geralt's put a sword in so many things, but he knows he'd never hurt him. Well, no more than strictly necessary.

But, for now, there's other things to do instead.


End file.
